Whats to Be Seen
As the days passed, Tom's thoughts drifted away from Harry and back to his own ambitions. During one of his late-night explorations, he stumbled upon a dusty, forgotten tome in the library that spoke of the legendary Chamber of Secrets, a hidden place within Hogwarts said to be created by one of the school’s founders.
Intrigued, he delved deeper into the lore, uncovering the knowledge that would allow him to access this hidden chamber.
He discovered the means to open it—It’s entrance was located in the girls' lavatory. All he had to do was speak a bit of parseltongue, and he was in.
Tom began to frequent the chamber, savouring the solitude it offered. Inside, he found an ancient atmosphere steeped in magic, as if the very walls hummed with the energy of ages past. He spent hours studying the various runes and symbols, contemplating how he could harness the secrets it held.
As Tom continued his explorations within the Chamber of Secrets, the air around him grew heavier with anticipation. The chamber, with its high vaulted ceiling and stone walls covered in serpentine carvings, felt alive. It pulsed with an energy that both thrilled and unnerved him. He had already uncovered numerous inscriptions detailing the chamber’s history, but it was the whispers of something greater lurking within that tugged at his curiosity.
One day, while tracing his fingers along the cold, damp stone walls, Tom noticed a narrow passageway he hadn’t seen before. It was partially concealed by the twisting roots of some ancient plant that had forced its way through the cracks. Intrigued, he pushed aside the foliage and slipped through the gap, his heart racing in anticipation.
The passage opened into a vast cavern, dimly lit by an eerie green glow that emanated from the walls. In the centre of the chamber, coiled around a massive stone altar, lay the creature of legend: the Basilisk. Its massive, serpentine body was covered in sleek, dark scales that shimmered like onyx in the low light. The creature's eyes were shut, but Tom could feel its power radiating in the air, a potent mixture of danger and allure.
Tom approached cautiously, his breath catching in his throat. The Basilisk was a magnificent beast, a true testament to the dark magic that had permeated the chamber. With each step, the ancient tales of its ferocity and deadly gaze echoed in his mind, but they did little to deter him. Instead, he felt a rush of excitement. This creature was a key—a means to an end.
Standing before the Basilisk, Tom cleared his throat and focused his mind. Paseltounge came naturally to him, as if it was a language he knew since birth. The basilisk was a snake, and he knew that he would need to speak to it to summon the creature.
“Awake, great serpent,” he hissed, the words sliding off his tongue with a natural fluidity that he was used to. “I seek your wisdom.”
The Basilisk stirred, its massive head lifting slowly. Its eyes remained closed, but Tom could sense its awareness. The creature's tongue flicked out, tasting the air, and he could almost hear the low rumble of its thoughts as it acknowledged his presence.
“Who dares to disturb my slumber?” the Basilisk's voice slithered into his mind, rich and deep, echoing off the cavern walls. It was not just sound but a sensation, like the soft hiss of a serpent weaving through the darkness.
“I am Tom Marvolo Riddle,” he replied confidently, the name sounding foreign yet powerful in the presence of the creature. “I have awakened you to seek your counsel. I wish to learn, to harness the true power of magic.”
“Many have sought to control me, young one,” the Basilisk hissed, its voice vibrating through the air. “But I sense your power, and I am willing to serve.”
Tom met the Basilisk's invisible gaze, unyielding and resolute. “I seek not to control you but to ally with you. Together, we could reshape the world, ridding it of those who do not deserve magic. You and I share a common goal—to purge the weak.”
A long silence stretched between them, the air thick with tension. The Basilisk considered his words, its massive form coiling slowly. “Very well, Tom Riddle. I shall heed your call and follow your commands. Speak your desires, and I will serve you faithfully.”
The thrill of the moment surged through him. Here, in the darkness of the chamber, Tom felt the foundations of his power solidifying. He was not just a boy lost in a school of magic; he was destined for greatness, and the Basilisk would be his devoted ally in that pursuit.
Yet, even as he immersed himself in his work, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.
Harry had been observing him more frequently, lingering in the corners of Tom’s mind like a shadow that refused to dissipate. He caught glimpses of him in the halls, or out of the corner of his eye during class. Harry's green eyes seemed to track him with an intensity that made Tom’s skin prickle.
But Tom quickly brushed aside these thoughts. He had more pressing matters to attend to than the enigma of Harry Evans. He was consumed by his research, by the potential that lay within the Chamber of Secrets. The darker parts of his mind urged him to push forward, to exploit every opportunity that presented itself. Harry was merely a distraction, an unnecessary complication in his quest for power.
Myrtle Elizabeth Warren was a quiet girl, often overlooked by her peers and often found wandering the shadowy corridors of Hogwarts. Her dark hair hung limply around her face, and she had an aura of melancholy that seemed to follow her wherever she went. Tom had noticed her a few times, her wide eyes filled with curiosity but always shying away from conversations, as if she feared what others might think.
On that fateful day, Tom had just returned from the Chamber of Secrets, feeling invigorated by the power he was beginning to wield. He strode through the castle with a newfound confidence, the thrill of his alliance with the Basilisk coursing through him. He was not just another student; he was destined for greatness, and he felt unstoppable.
As he wandered past the girls' lavatory, he heard a faint sniffle. Curiosity piqued, he paused and turned to find Myrtle huddled in a corner, her face buried in her hands, quietly weeping. For a moment, he contemplated moving on, dismissing her as another insignificant student. But something compelled him to approach.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked, his tone more curious than sympathetic.
She looked up, her tear-streaked face revealing a mixture of surprise and wariness. “It’s nothing. Just leave me alone,” she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper.
Tom shrugged, uninterested in her woes. “Suit yourself.” He turned to leave, but as he did, he felt the familiar pull of the Chamber’s entrance calling to him. Ignoring the gnawing sense of urgency, he stepped deeper into the lavatory.
To his surprise, Myrtle followed him. “Are you going down there?” she asked, her voice a mix of fear and curiosity. “Is it safe?”
“It’s none of your concern,” he snapped, but she didn’t back down. Instead, she moved closer, her eyes wide with wonder, peering into the shadows as if hoping to catch a glimpse of what lay beyond.
In a moment of distraction, Tom stepped back, inadvertently allowing the Basilisk to reveal itself. Myrtle gasped, her expression shifting from curiosity to terror as she met the creature’s unyielding gaze. “What is that?” she breathed, taking a step backward.
Before Tom could react, the Basilisk struck. In that instant, time seemed to freeze. Myrtle’s scream pierced the air, a desperate sound that echoed off the stone walls, but Tom felt an odd detachment. This wasn’t his intention, but she was just another nameless face in a sea of students, someone who held no real significance to his grand designs.
As the chaos subsided, Tom stood in the aftermath, a strange thrill mingling with indifference. Myrtle Elizabeth Warren had become his first victim, unintentional yet inevitable. He felt no remorse; instead, he saw it as a necessary step on his path to power.
Tom left the scene of the crime swiftly, his heart racing, but not from fear. The thrill of what he had just orchestrated coursed through him, mingling with a sense of power that left him feeling exhilarated. He knew he had to make his way back to the dungeons before anyone could discover what had happened, before the echoes of Myrtle’s scream could draw attention to him.
As he descended the dimly lit corridors, he turned a corner and almost collided with Harry Evans. The boy was emerging from a side passage, his expression one of surprise that quickly morphed into something unreadable. Tom's curiosity sparked—did Harry know what had happened?
“Evans,” Tom said smoothly, forcing a casual tone. “What are you doing out so late in the evening?”
Harry shrugged, his brow furrowing slightly. “I could ask you the same question, Riddle.”
A familiar sensation of déjà vu washed over Tom, reminiscent of their first encounter in the library. There was an odd connection in their exchanges, a thread that pulled him closer to this boy, despite the growing chasm between their worlds.
“I was merely conducting my rounds as prefect,” Tom replied, maintaining his polished demeanour. “It’s important to ensure that the castle remains safe, don’t you think?”
Harry studied him for a long moment, as if trying to decipher the layers beneath Tom’s carefully crafted façade. There was an intensity in his gaze that made Tom slightly uneasy, but he quickly masked it with a smirk.
“Well, good luck with that,” Harry finally said, his tone indifferent. Without another word, he turned and walked past Tom, heading further down the corridor, leaving Tom standing there, momentarily taken aback.
Harry took a deep breath as he wandered through the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts, the stone walls echoing with memories he had only just begun to piece together. He had figured out enough about this timeline; Dumbledore was not the headmaster yet—he was still a professor of Transfiguration. Harry had spoken with him just that day, and the conversation lingered in his mind like a distant echo.
Harry approached Dumbledore's classroom, his heart pounding in his chest. The door was slightly ajar, and he could hear the murmurs of students within, their voices bright and youthful, unaware of the weight of the world beyond these walls. Once the class ended, Dumbledore stepped out, a warm smile gracing his face as he noticed Harry waiting.
“Ah, Mr. Evans, what brings you here?” Dumbledore asked, his blue eyes twinkling with curiosity.
“Professor, I need to speak with you in private,” Harry said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.
Dumbledore nodded, his expression shifting from geniality to seriousness. He gestured for Harry to follow him into an empty classroom down the hall, away from prying eyes and ears. The door clicked shut behind them, and the atmosphere turned instantly more intimate.
Once inside, Harry fidgeted with his hands, gathering his thoughts. He couldn’t let fear overtake him now. “I’m actually from the year 1996,” he blurted out, the words tumbling out before he could second-guess himself.
Dumbledore’s eyes widened slightly, surprise mingling with intrigue. “That is quite an assertion, Harry. Time travel is a complex and perilous endeavour. How did you find yourself in this predicament?”
“I—I touched some mysterious hourglass,” Harry explained, his heart racing. “I can’t say much more because if I do, I risk creating a time paradox.”
“An astute observation,” Dumbledore replied, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “But tell me, why did you seek me out? What troubles you?”
“Sir I—I don’t know why I’m here,” Harry admitted, the frustration in his voice rising. “I was sent back to this time without warning, and now I find myself lost.”
Dumbledore considered this for a moment, his gaze steady and assessing. “Perhaps you were sent back for a reason. There may be something here that you can change, something significant.”
Harry shook his head vigorously, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. “I-I can’t just stay here, Professor, I need to be with my friends. They— I can’t let them just try to figure everything out on their own, There’s still so much I need to do!”
“Harry,” Dumbledore said gently, his voice filled with empathy, “sometimes, there are events that transpire beyond our understanding, and we must be patient to learn why they occur. Change is often the catalyst for growth, and you may find that your presence here serves a greater purpose than you realise.”
“But what if my presence only makes things worse?” Harry whispered, the weight of dread heavy in his chest.
“Fear of the unknown is natural,” Dumbledore replied, his tone soothing. “But remember, every choice you make shapes the course of your destiny. Perhaps you can alter a fate that seems inevitable. It is not an easy path, but it is one you must navigate with courage.”
Harry hesitantly nodded, though uncertainty still gnawed at him. He felt both slightly comforted and terrified by Dumbledore’s words. What could he possibly change? He still had to figure out what Draco was up to in his time, and yet here he was; stuck in the past he didn’t want to be in, uncertain and afraid.
Dumbledore placed a comforting hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You will find your way, Harry. Just be patient with yourself. The answers will come in time.”
Harry found himself making his way to the dungeons, his mind swirling with uncertainty. He was headed back to the shared dormitory he had with Tom Riddle of all people. The mere thought of it made his stomach churn.
Why did it have to be him?
The idea of rooming with Riddle filled him with a mixture of dread and curiosity. Tom Riddle—the heir of Slytherin, a future dark wizard, and yet here he was, just a boy at Hogwarts. Did he have any idea of the darkness that awaited him?
Harry longed for the safety of his own time, as safe as it was. A time when he had direction and purpose. In 1996, Harry’s life was dangerous but clear. He was learning about Horcruxes, diving into Voldemort’s past, and preparing for a battle he knew was inevitable. With Dumbledore’s guidance, each revelation was a step closer to victory. The danger was real, but so was his purpose, and his friends—Ron, Hermione, the Order—were by his side . Even with the looming shadow of war, there was comfort in knowing what he had to do and who he was fighting for.
But in this strange past, Harry felt that sense of direction slipping away. Here, he was alone. No one knew what he’d faced, and his friendships, which had always grounded him, were just memories.
There was no clear enemy, nobody knew him, and even the goal he clung to—preventing Tom from becoming Voldemort—was ambiguous, like fighting a shadow he couldn’t yet see. What he faced now felt both more uncertain and somehow even darker. Without the anchors of his own time, Harry found himself navigating unfamiliar waters, with only the instinct to protect against a threat that hadn’t yet fully emerged.
How am I supposed to navigate this?
Dumbledore's words echoed in his mind, Change the past? Change what? He first thought that he had to ensure that events unfolded as they were meant to, even if that meant Tom eventually becoming Voldemort. He didn’t even know much about the way timelines worked.
He only vaguely remembered Hermione lecturing him about them back in third year, after they had used the time turner to set things right. “Once you change something from the past, another branch of the future is created.” She’d said, a large book in front of them. “In some cases, the future you know could be terminated and replaced with a new one”
Harry's heart sank at the thought of Riddle's inevitable path. He remembered the thrill of power in Tom’s voice as he eavesdropped the conversation in the lavatory—the way he spoke with such confidence and authority. How could someone so young wield such darkness? And Myrtle… Tom had already killed her, that much was clear. The memory sent a shiver down Harry's spine.
As he walked, Harry found his eyes drawn to Riddle more often these days, studying his every move. There was an allure to Tom, a darkness that both fascinated and terrified him. What was he supposed to do?
Could he really change anything, or was he just a spectator in a story that had already been written? He felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness wash over him. What if his presence here was a mistake?
As he reached the door to their dormitory, he hesitated, his heart racing. The familiar chill of the dungeons wrapped around him, but this time it felt different. He thought over what he should do.
Maybe something I could change, huh?
Maybe there really was something he could change. Perhaps he could steer young Tom away from his destined path. What if he could prevent Riddle from becoming the monstrous Dark Lord he was fated to become?
The thought sparked a flicker of hope within him, but it quickly mingled with doubt. Could he truly alter the course of history, or was he just fooling himself?
If he could connect with Tom, maybe he could instill a sense of morality, a belief in the value of life.
He sure as hell could try, nothing to lose now, right?
Tom wandered the dimly lit corridors, ensuring his alibi as prefect remained intact. The murmurs of students and teachers echoed around him, growing louder as he approached the scene. Medi-wizards were busy carrying a lifeless body on a stretcher, and the weight of their grim task hung heavily in the air.
So they've found her already, he thought, a cold satisfaction curling at the edges of his mind.
He moved closer, his gaze fixed on the body covered with a white sheet. Even beneath the fabric, he knew it was Myrtle Warren.
“Riddle?” A voice called out, and Tom turned to see Professor Dumbledore atop the staircase. “Come,” he beckoned, his expression unreadable.
“Professor Dumbledore,” Tom acknowledged, making his way up the stairs to hear him more clearly.
“It is not wise to be wandering around at this late hour, Tom,” Dumbledore remarked, his gaze sharp as Tom approached.
“I had to see for myself if the rumours were true,” Tom replied, tucking his hands behind his back and craning his neck slightly to maintain eye contact.
“I’m afraid they are, Tom,” Dumbledore confirmed, his expression steady as he studied Tom. “They are true.”
“About the school as well?” Tom feigned concern, his brows knitting into a worried expression. “I don’t have a home to go to; they wouldn’t really close Hogwarts, would they, Professor?”
“I understand, Tom,” Dumbledore sighed, the weight of the situation evident in his voice. “But I’m afraid Headmaster Dippet may have no choice.”
“Sir, if it all stopped, if the person responsible was caught…” Tom paused, allowing a flicker of contemplation to dance across his features.
Dumbledore regarded him with a questioning look. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”
Tom relaxed his knitted brows, shaking his head slightly. “No, sir. Nothing.”
Dumbledore’s gaze held an almost knowing quality, and Tom felt a flicker of irritation. It was as if Dumbledore was attempting to peer beyond the polite facade he had crafted.
“Very well then, off you go,” Dumbledore said, his tone dismissive yet watchful.
“Goodnight, sir,” Tom replied, looking down at his shoes as he turned to walk down the stairs. The chill of the evening lingered in the air. As he descended, he couldn’t shake the feeling, Dumbledore was far too perceptive for his liking.
As Tom made his way back to the dungeons, a strange sensation coursed through him—this was his first kill. Although it wasn’t directly his doing, he felt a faint flicker of responsibility settle in the pit of his stomach. Not the kind of responsibility that invoked guilt, however, it was the kind of responsibility he felt almost proud of.
He approached the entrance to the Slytherin dormitories, the familiar shadows of the stone walls enveloping him like a shroud. The door creaked open, revealing his room in the dim light. There, by the window, stood Harry Evans, seemingly lost in thought as he gazed out at the moonlit grounds.
“Good evening, Evans. Has your night been pleasant?” Tom asked, his voice smooth and courteous as always.
Harry turned slightly, offering only a hum of acknowledgement, his eyes still fixed on the view outside. Tom couldn’t help but notice the boy’s distant demeanour. It was a familiar trait by now—one that both intrigued and irked him.
He stepped further into the room, the door closing softly behind him. “You seem deep in thought,” he remarked, studying Harry’s profile. “What occupies your mind at such an hour?”
“Nothing,” Harry replied shortly, though Tom could sense a layer of tension beneath his words.
Tom’s curiosity piqued. He had long since grown accustomed to people’s reactions, their fears, and desires, and here was Evans, a puzzle yet to be solved. “Perhaps you should share your thoughts. It might ease your mind,” he suggested, leaning casually against his desk.
Harry finally turned to face him, his expression unreadable. “I don’t think you’d be interested in my thoughts, Riddle.”
“On the contrary,” Tom said, adopting an air of mock sincerity. “I find you quite fascinating.”
Harry raised an eyebrow, scepticism etched across his features. “Right,” he replied, the tone of his voice dripping with disbelief. Tom straightened, sensing that Harry’s walls were built high.
“I know it was you, Tom. I know you got Myrtle Warren killed.”
Tom paused at that, his body freezing in place as the weight of Harry's words sank in. His suspicions had been correct; Harry must have overheard the exchange in the lavatory. The veneer of politeness slipped away like a discarded mask, replaced by a cold, stoic expression that revealed nothing.
“Do you now?” he replied, his voice devoid of its previous warmth, dripping with something darker. The game had shifted, and he was no longer interested in playing the charming prefect.
Harry rose from his spot by the window, his movements slow and deliberate as he approached Tom. “I also know about your plans to create a Horcrux. You’ve been researching how to do it for months now.”
Tom’s heart quickened at the revelation. How did Harry know this? He had never confided this ambition to anyone, not even his closest followers. “And how would you know that, Evans?” he asked, a note of suspicion lacing his tone.
Harry met his gaze with that same unwavering intensity, the challenge in his eyes unyielding. “You shouldn’t pursue whatever it is you’re scheming. It’s a bad idea.”
Tom scoffed, a flicker of disgust crossing his features. “You know nothing about me,” he shot back, his words heavy with incredulity.
Harry’s eyes held an almost sad look, a flicker of disappointment in his gaze.
“Goodnight, Tom,” he replied, dismissing the conversation as he turned away.
He felt a rush of frustration mixed with intrigue. How does he know? Tom resolved to question him further in the morning, his mind racing with possibilities as he finally headed to the bathroom to change and prepare for bed himself.
As he washed his hands, the cool water splashing against his skin grounded him, but his thoughts lingered on Harry’s words. The boy was more perceptive than he had anticipated, and Tom felt the stirrings of a challenge—one that he would not shy away from.
Tom eventually climbed into bed, reaching over to extinguish his own flame with a careful flick of his fingers. The room descended into darkness, the only sounds the gentle crackle of the embers dying out and the rhythmic rise and fall of Harry’s breathing.
Sleep seemed impossible.
his mind was tangled in questions that he couldn’t seem to escape. How did Harry know? How had the boy seen through him so quickly, when Tom had spent years perfecting the art of concealing his true intentions?
The need for answers was relentless, gnawing at him with the persistence of an itch he couldn’t scratch. It wasn’t just curiosity—it was a demand. No one had ever unsettled him quite like this. As much as Tom craved control, Harry’s perceptiveness felt like a mirror, reflecting things Tom had kept hidden even from himself.
He turned his head and studied Harry’s silhouette against the dim light. Harry lay with his back to him, seemingly unbothered, breathing deep and steady as though nothing in the world could disturb him. It was maddening, watching him sleep so peacefully while Tom lay there, wide awake, each heartbeat seeming to intensify the questions swirling in his mind. Harry was an enigma wrapped in contradictions, a puzzle that Tom couldn’t leave unsolved.
A faint shaft of moonlight traced the curve of Harry’s shoulder, illuminating the strands of dark hair that he imagined fell over his face, and Tom’s eyes lingered there, almost in spite of himself. Harry’s apparent ease—the way he turned his back on Tom, as if he had nothing to fear—felt like a silent challenge, a dare that Tom couldn’t ignore.
Morning really couldn’t come soon enough.
When Tom awoke the next morning, the dormitory was quiet. He glanced over and saw that Harry was still fast asleep, lying on his side, his face half-buried in the pillow. Tom rose silently and crossed the room, stopping beside Harry’s bed. For a moment, he simply watched, studying the boy's face in the pale morning light.
Harry looked almost peaceful, his expression softened in sleep. Tom’s gaze drifted over the unruly strands of dark hair that refused to lie flat, the way his lashes brushed his cheeks, casting faint shadows over his skin. And then his eyes found the scar on Harry’s forehead—thin, jagged, shaped curiously like a lightning bolt. Tom tilted his head slightly, intrigued. Scars often came from significant events, but he couldn’t imagine what could’ve left a mark like that. He made a mental note to ask Harry about it later; the boy’s secrets were proving increasingly interesting.
He considered waking him, then decided against it. For now, he’d let Harry remain in his world of dreams, unguarded and unknowing. Turning away, Tom moved quietly to get ready for the day’s classes, dressing and straightening his robes with precision.
As he slipped out of the dormitory and into the common room, he noticed a few of his fellow Slytherins already gathered. Thomas Avery and Amycus Carrow were huddled near the hearth, their voices low but tinged with an urgency that caught Tom's attention.
“Did you hear what happened?” Avery was saying, his face pale. “Myrtle. Myrtle Warren. They found her dead last night.”
Amycus glanced around, eyes wide, then leaned in closer. “They’re saying it was…well, that it was some kind of beast. D’you think it’s true? That the Chamber of Secrets was opened?”
Tom felt his interest sharpen as he paused in the shadows, listening. He hadn’t let anyone know he was there yet, preferring to observe.
“It has to be,” Avery whispered, his tone almost reverent. “How else would something like that happen? Myrtle was crying in the girls' bathroom, they say. And now… gone. Just like that.”
Amycus shifted uneasily. “And they think it might happen again. I heard the professors talking, saying it’s only the beginning. Whoever opened the Chamber might be planning something worse.”
Tom suppressed a smirk as he watched his so-called knights look suitably terrified. This was precisely the effect he had hoped for, though he didn’t intend to reveal himself just yet. Instead, he simply listened, intrigued by the weight his actions had already started to cast over the school.
Tom eventually stepped forward, making his presence known. The moment Avery and Amycus caught sight of him, they stiffened, falling silent under his gaze. Tom’s expression was composed, his eyes unreadable, as he looked at each of them in turn.
“We’ll have a meeting later,” he said calmly, his tone brooking no argument. “Tell the others.”
Avery nodded immediately, eager to follow Tom’s instructions. “Yes, Tom,” he replied with a slight bow of his head, the faintest hint of admiration flickering in his eyes. “We’ll let them know.”
Amycus added a quick nod of his own. “We’ll make sure everyone’s there.”
Tom inclined his head, accepting their deference with quiet satisfaction. With nothing more to say, he turned and walked away, leaving the pair to exchange wide-eyed glances as they whispered to each other in hushed voices. He could almost feel their awe, the weight of the unspoken respect that clung to his every word. They were more than just followers—they were disciples, clinging to his every command with a devotion that he knew he could bend to his will.
As he moved through the quiet corridors, Tom’s thoughts turned to the whispers that had begun to spread throughout the school.
How far had the news of Myrtle’s death reached? The incident had surely stirred something within the walls of Hogwarts, a ripple of fear that would only grow as rumours of the basilisk circulated. He could already envision the worried glances, the hushed conversations, the way students would look over their shoulders, wondering if they would be next.
This was the power of fear. It was a tool, sharp and dangerous, and Tom knew precisely how to use it. The news of the Chamber of Secrets, the hint of a creature lurking within Hogwarts itself—these things could inspire dread and awe, could unsettle even the most confident of students and staff. And Tom intended to let that fear fester, to let it creep into every corner, so that his influence would spread without even lifting a finger.
He let himself smile, feeling the thrill of his own plans settling into place. The mere whisper of the Chamber, the shadow of the basilisk, would soon be enough to grip Hogwarts in silence.
Tom carried on with his classes as if the events of the previous night hadn’t affected him in the slightest. He answered questions with his usual composure, maintained his flawless record of attention and excellence, and moved through his day as though nothing was amiss. But the subtle thrill of the previous night—the basilisk’s silent terror—kept him focused, and he knew that by eventide, there would be much to discuss with his loyal followers.
When the sun had just about to set, Tom made his way to a spare classroom, one Horace Slughorn had once again “generously” allowed him to use. Inside, his knights were already gathered, waiting eagerly, seated around a large table. Tom took his place at the head, his presence commanding their attention immediately.
He began by addressing them with cool authority, speaking about the importance of honing their skills. "It’s time we prepared ourselves for more than theory,” he said, his tone firm and calculated. “Duelling isn’t just about magic; it’s about discipline, control, and an unbreakable will.”
With measured patience, he moved through the room, demonstrating spells, teaching precise wand movements, and offering sharp critiques. His knights listened to his every word, nodding solemnly as they absorbed his instruction. For them, this wasn’t merely a lesson—it was an honour to learn from him, and they hung on to his every command.
An hour passed, and Tom concluded the session, dismissing the knights one by one. But as they began to file out, he raised a hand to stop one of them. “Abraxas,” he said smoothly, gesturing for him to remain behind.
Abraxas Malfoy, ever obedient, lingered at the table as the others left. Tom approached him with an appraising look. “I have a task for you.”
“Yes, Tom?” Abraxas replied, a touch of eagerness in his voice.
Tom leaned in slightly, his gaze unflinching. “There’s a boy named Harry Evans—new, quiet. Find out what you can about him. I want to know where he came from, and any details you can uncover. Report back to me with whatever you find.”
Abraxas inclined his head. “Of course, Tom. I’ll begin tonight.”
Satisfied, Tom nodded, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. Abraxas exited the room, and Tom made his way back toward the dungeons, his mind turning over plans and contingencies.
But as he rounded the corner, he nearly collided with the very subject of his investigation. Harry stood there, those green eyes meeting his with a steely look, guarded but somehow unyielding.
“Riddle,” Harry said curtly, a flicker of recognition passing between them before he turned to leave.
“Wait.” Tom’s voice was calm, but it had an edge that halted Harry in his tracks. He smiled, just a hint of charm in it. “Care to join me for tea?”
Harry paused, glancing over his shoulder, sceptical. “And where, exactly, would we have tea?”
A moment later, they found themselves back in the spare classroom, now empty but for the lingering energy of Tom’s knights from earlier. The long table stretched out before them, and Tom set a cup of tea before Harry with a careful, almost ceremonial precision.
Harry eyed Tom with a hint of suspicion, studying the cup of tea Tom had offered him before finally breaking the silence. “So… why did you ask me here for tea?”
Tom set his own cup down carefully, taking a seat at the head of the table next to harry, meeting his gaze with a steady intensity. “I wanted to know more about you, Harry,” he replied smoothly, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Specifically, how you knew about… my ambitions.”
Harry’s expression tightened slightly, and he set his cup down. “I just know,” he replied, his tone guarded.
Tom arched a brow, studying him carefully. “You just know,” he repeated, a trace of amusement in his voice. “That’s not much of an answer, is it?”
Harry’s jaw clenched, and he fell silent, looking away as if trying to dismiss the question. Tom felt the tension in the air thicken. There was something in Harry’s eyes, a flicker of uncertainty, and Tom was determined to uncover it.
“There’s absolutely no way you could know that,” Tom said firmly, his tone taking on a faint edge. “I keep my plans to myself, hidden from anyone who might interfere. And yet… here you are, with pieces of information you shouldn’t have. How?”
Harry’s hands remained on the table, his cup practically untouched. After a tense moment, he abruptly rose from his seat, avoiding Tom’s gaze. “I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he muttered, a flicker of defiance in his expression.
Harry turned sharply and left the room, his footsteps echoing in the silence behind him. Tom remained seated, letting the door swing closed, a satisfied smirk spreading across his face. The thrill of the chase ignited within him, the game of cat and mouse beginning anew.
Harry Evans had secrets—of that much Tom was certain. And like any skilled hunter, he would ensnare his prey, one way or another.
As he prepared to dismiss the meeting in his mind, Tom couldn’t help but admire the way Harry had evaded his questions, the flicker of fear masked by a facade of bravado. In the shadows of his thoughts, he resolved to tighten the noose gradually, ensuring that Harry would soon have nowhere left to hide